


1994

by rosegoldmarble



Category: Uncharted
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I'm Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4132554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldmarble/pseuds/rosegoldmarble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombies ruin a lot of things. Examples: childhood, travel plans, and what was really supposed to happen.<br/>He'll blame himself for as long as he lives. Disrespectfully.<br/>(Alternative summary: Sully is an extremely nostalgic man.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1994

**Author's Note:**

> Nate and Sully meet in 1991, and the apocalypse starts in 1994.
> 
> (Nonlinear narrative.)

Nathan Drake is eighteen and has a lot of regrets. Examples: never going to Yemen, never getting the astrolabe from Marlowe, and most of all, sleeping in.

\--

Nathan Drake is seventeen and isn’t used to being shaken awake. In the beginning, he always slept through his alarm, and ended up sleeping in. To fix this, Sully would wake him up by turning the radio on loud. For three years (the longest and shortest of his life), he was woken up to the sound of either music or the chatter of radio hosts. Once he was woken up by Sully blasting Madonna and the smoke alarm (due to burning breakfast).

“Kid. Hey, kid.”

“...Yeah?” Nate slurs, turning his head towards the sound and blearily looking up at Sully. It’s a bit jarring when he realizes they’re in their tent and not Sully’s house. He hasn’t been there in about half a year.

“Just letting you know I’m taking your patrol shift this morning. You’re clearly in no shape to run around. So if you’re wondering where I am, that’s where, okay?”

Nate’s exhaustion is bone-deep. He can’t will himself to get up. “Okay, thanks, Sul,” he mutters.

Sully flicks him lightly in the forehead. Nate says “ow” even though it doesn’t hurt, and soon falls back asleep.

\--

It's a couple nights before the outbreak. They're watching that documentary that Nate absolutely adores and Sully grumbles about, but still puts up with for some reason. Bright-eyed, Nate asks if they can ever go to Yemen someday. Sully says sure, someday they’d go and play tourist, maybe steal something while they’re at it. Nate rolls his eyes.

Weeks later, Sully jokes that they can run to the ocean and swim over; besides, it's probably safer in the water. Mer-zombies don't exist. Probably. Nate smiles wanly and doesn't quite meet his gaze.

\--

There's a span of time where Nate is chronically exhausted. He hates walking, much less running. Which is inconvenient, considering the circumstances. It's hard to believe this is the same kid who always had too much goddamn energy, bounding recklessly ahead of Sully on jobs and pacing around the house, or hotel, or wherever they were currently dwelling.

One evening, Nate's lying on his sleeping bag in their tent. "I wanna go home," he mutters, draping an arm over his eyes. 

Sully pauses for a moment, then asks: “Cartagena?”

“Hmm?” Nate rubs his eyes, trying to stay alert enough to answer. “No, I…” 

“Where are you from? If I may ask, of course.” 

“Just...never mind,” Nate says sleepily, turning over. “’Night, Sully.”

After Nate’s asleep, Sully nearly steps on the little sketchbook Nate still carries around. It’s been left open. As Sully picks it up to set it aside, he sees the kid’s sketches. It’s Sully’s living room: the television set, the coffee table Nate always propped his feet up on (despite Sully’s protests) and Sully’s favorite chair.

Sully wants to go home, too.

\--

Nathan Drake is eighteen. It's probably the afternoon. He's lying down on the grass, in the middle of who-knows-where, staring blankly upwards. He's trying to remember before the outbreak. The first and clearest thing he remembers:  _they’re in Peru for the first (and only) time for a job. They’d been driving for four hours straight, so Sully had stopped the car so they could both stretch their legs. Nate spots a huge tree nearby and does not resist the urge to climb it. Fifteen minutes pass. Finally, Sully approaches the tree, looking up at Nate. “We gotta get going, kid. Climb on down.”_

_The car radio is still blasting. Nate can’t remember the lyrics, but the song is upbeat. High- up in a tree, finally off the streets of Cartagena, with someone who considers him a friend (he’s pretty sure), Nate feels on top of the world._

_“Make me!” he calls back. He’s just kidding; he’s about to start climbing down when Sully drops his cigar to the ground, steps on it, then begins to climb the tree._

_“No, don’t! You’ll fall and break your hip,_ viejo _!” Nate’s trying his best not to laugh. Sully is clearly not an experienced tree-climber._

 _“Hey, I looked that up in the Spanish to English dictionary, and I_ know _that means 'old man.' Now get down here, **we have to get moving, or we’re not going to make it t-** "_

Nate breathes out smoke, puts out his cigarette, and forces himself to his feet.

\--

Nathan Drake has killed some people. Examples: a woman who tried to cut his throat, a teenager who was about to shoot him in order to take all his stuff, and Victor Sullivan.

\--

Nate hands him a cigar, offering a slight smile. Sully thanks him. As Sully lights it, he wonders where the hell the kid keeps getting the goddamn things. He also wonders how the world could have gotten so messed up to the point that Nate is providing him cigars on his own free will. Once Nate felt comfortable to complain about things (which was much too soon for Sully’s liking) he certainly did complain. Sully would often have to hunt down packs of cigars that “went missing”. In one instance, where they’d known each other only about month, Sully had caught Nate flushing a pack down the toilet. Nate had looked scared, like he was expecting him to be angry. Sully had simply taken out his wallet, handed Nate some money, and told him to go buy some more as soon as he could. The kid had skulked out of the room, muttering something about “gross sticks that will kill your lungs, _viejo_.” Nate used to leave the room when Sully smoked, but right now he’s sitting next to him (without even exaggeratedly waving the smoke away) talking softly, careful not to disturb the rest of the camp.

\--

It is late at night. Sully is sitting on his sleeping bag, smoking, thinking. Nate, who only entered the tent a few minutes ago (god knows why), has been glancing over at him periodically. Finally, Nate confronts him.

“Okay, what is it?” Nate asks. “What’s wrong?”

Sully takes his cigar from his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Nate just crosses his arms, waiting.

What was the use hiding it from him now? Before he can decide otherwise, Sully pulls up his right pant leg, showing the bite mark right above his ankle.  
Nate stares. And stares. This unsettles Sully more than Nate freaking out would. Finally, after a solid twenty seconds or so, Nate moves. So abruptly it startles Sully. Nate’s moving faster than he’s ever seen him (and that’s saying something), grabbing things and stuffing them into his bag.

“What are you doing?” Sully asks, bewildered.

“What are  _you_  doing? Where’s your bag?!” Nate’s frantic, scrambling to grab his water bottle.

“ _What the hell are_ -“

“They’re gonna kill you, Sully – move!”

True, Sully would start showing symptoms of being bitten pretty soon. In a few hours, maybe? However, he wouldn't actually turn for five to ten days. The camp council will kill him immediately for not reporting his bite upfront.

“Nate-“

The kid shakes his head violently. He has his back to him; Sully can’t see his face. “No. We stay here, they’ll kill you. We have to go. I know the exact patrol schedules. We can make it out.”

Sully has no idea what to say first. Finally, he decides on: “What about you?” He wants to get furious, insist that Nate stay here, _safe,_ but deep down he knows that there’s no stopping the kid.

Nate turns his head slightly at the question, but doesn’t reply.

“You’re safe here. They won’t let you come back if-!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

Silence. Nate actually pauses for a few seconds after his outburst, but then snaps out of it. He zips up his backpack and stands.

“I’m going to die anyway, Nate.”

Nate walks over to him. He looks angry, Sully thinks, and then notices the tears. Automatically, he uses his long sleeve to wipe once at Nate’s face. Nate freezes, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply. Then he’s back in action again, grabbing Sully’s arm and pulling him towards the center of the tent. “Get your stuff.” Nate says, picking up Sully’s half-empty water bottle and handing it to him. “You could have a week. Or more. You’re- you’re probably gonna get that-“ He weakly motions to his own face. “- grey stuff…soon.”

“Yeah.”

They don’t say anything else for a long while, not even when Sully puts a hand on Nate’s shoulder and Nate takes his wrist and tugs him towards the path out of camp.

Sully remembers the kid on the roof from three and half years ago. There’d been nothing but fear and uncertainty in his eyes as Sully approached him. He’d been holding a gun for the very first time, his hands shaking badly.

Now, as Nate draws his handgun, he’s steady and sure. Sully feels proud. And regretful (but that can’t be helped).

\--

The next six days are pretty much a blur, looking back. And Nate sometimes tries desperately to look back. He only remembers a few things leading up to Sully’s death. He remembers one night: an ill-looking Sully lying down next to him, quietly pointing out constellations.

Unfortunately, he also remembers when he realizes it was _all his fault_.

He asks Sully when he had got bitten. When Sully tells him it was the previous morning, it hits him.

"Oh, god," Nate says. He suddenly feels way too numb. "That was my shift. You – I didn't get up.”

"Nate-"

"It should have been-"

"Nate, it's not your fault, okay? Listen to me. It's not your fault. It's just what happened."

Nate’s eyes are wild, manic, and he's having trouble getting the words out. “I killed you. I killed -"

Sully grips his shoulders tightly, and Nate starts. “I am not dying with you thinking it’s your fault. Okay?” When Nate doesn’t respond, Sully shakes him once. “Okay?”

Nate’s hands are skittering over Sully’s forearms. “It should have been me.”

“No, better me than you." There's a drawn-out moment where Sully doesn't say anything, and Nate can hear his heart pounding in his ears. "I’m twenty-five years older and I have bad lungs,” Sully tells him, like Nate cares.

Nate asks Sully what they’re going to do. He says, “You’re going to live.”

He tries to picture his life without Sully: past, present, future. He doesn't really see anything.

\--

Nathan Drake is fifteen and he shouldn't have a curfew.

"Where have you been?" Sully demands as he comes through the door. It's late at night (or rather, early in the morning). He thought Sully had been fast asleep when he left. Crap.

Nate glowers back. "I'm fine, okay? Why are you so controlling?"

Sully hesitates before answering. "I am not controlling-"

"Yes, you are! You are not my -" Nate breaks off, then starts back up again on different track. "You are _way_ too protective. I can go where I want! Why are you so -"

"Because I don't want you getting hurt!" 

It's the way Sully says it, especially, that leaves Nate with words stuck in his throat. Adults have always wanted to control him, but they never were _concerned about **him**_. Finally, after a few moments silence, he manages, "Thanks for worrying about me, Sully. But I can take care of myself. It's okay."

Now, Sully wonders if Nate can take care of himself, by himself. Sully will never know because he'll be dead.

\--

It’s midnight, about, (the fourth day?) and Sully’s lying to him. “The world might get better someday. Someday soon maybe. You could get to Yemen, kid. Take pictures.”

Nate makes a slight, noncommittal sound, absently squeezing Sully’s hand. Sully doesn’t seem to notice.

“You can call me ‘son’, y’know," he mumbles. "It’s fine.” (Sully has called him that a few other times after their first-ever encounter. Every time Sully had immediately brushed it off, saying he just had a habit of calling much younger people that.)

“Okay then," Sully says after a long pause. "As long as you don’t think you can call me old man now. Because you are never allowed to do that. Ever.”

Nate huffs a laugh despite himself.

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Nate has always hated Sully’s definition of ‘okay’.

\--

Maybe this is a dream. Nate wishes he never met Sully (that way he would never have gotten him bitten). Nate wishes he’d been shot on the roof by that person when he was fourteen. (He mentally retracts that statement because he knows Sully would be disappointed.)

\--

Here's one thing that never happens: Sully is Nate’s neighbor. Sully always babysits his one year old granddaughter while Nate and Elena are at work. Now he’s holding Josie as he talks on the phone for a rather lengthy amount of time.

“Yeah –  _yes_ Nate, she’s fine. She ate breakfast.” A few moments of silence as Nate talks on the other end. Josie’s smiling. “Okay, I’ll tell her.” Another pause, then Sully sighs, long-suffering. “ _I love you too,_  now get back to work, goddamnit, your breaks are not that long –”

\--

Sully’s going to be a zombie if he's not shot in the head soon.

Sully’s sitting up, doing his best to stay upright. Nate’s kneeling in front of him. He lifts his gun slightly off the ground. Sully had shown him how to shoot cans and targets. He hadn’t shown him how to shoot friends. (And he certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about shooting family). His hand starts to tremble violently, and his arm drops back to his side.

“I can’t -" Nate's vaguely aware that he's crying.

“Here, just –“ Sully hand covers his and gently tries to tug the weapon away from Nate. “I can do it.”

“ _No_! No, I’m not letting you-“

Sully takes Nate’s other hand. Nate grips back tightly.

“Okay, son.”

Nate doesn’t know what to say. He’s _never_ known what to say. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Sully’s. Sully isn’t fully there at this point. He’s calmly rubbing soothing circles on Nate’s gun-less hand with his thumb.

Nate takes a breath, replaces his forehead with the barrel of his gun, and pulls the trigger.

Part of him is screaming to scramble away from the corpse of his only family. There’s a lot of blood, and Sully’s eyes are partway open and scarily blank. But, since he has no willpower to move, he doesn’t. Nate sits there, shaking. Sully should help him up, calmly the take the gun from his hand, let it fall to the ground, and say, “You’re okay, kid.”

But Nate shot him this time, so that’s not going to happen.

    end. 

 

 

(Author's Note: I was gonna flesh this out more but I was too emotionally exhausted, ha. )

(If you'd like, please leave a comment. I'd really, really appreciate it!)

 

 

 

 


End file.
